"Please," flirted Fate, "This was meant to be."

If We’re Talking Body, You’ve Got a Perfect One, So Put it on Me

The long fingers of one hand wrap around my throat, his other arm snakes around my waist and he hoists me up and pins my back against the long line of his body. He growls in my ear; wordless, a raw, animal sound. My fingers automatically close around his wrists and stroke at his skin. His body is vibrating behind mine; he is heat lightning and raw thunder and energy. I feel small and vulnerable in his hands. His teeth close around my earlobe and he drags the flesh into his mouth. His thumb at my windpipe slows my breathing down until all I can take are deep, slow breaths, fighting for the little air he does allow me. His hand at my waist forces its way in between my skin and my clothing, sneaking past my skirt and rubbing against the outside of my panties, stroking me between my thighs. I can’t help but rock my hips, but let my fingers snake around his wrists. There is heat inside of him, an urgency born of jealousy and a fire that’s been simmering all day.

His deft fingers rips my panties and my skirt down my hips, strong hand tearing the fabric in an effort to have me naked against him. When the cloth falls, he walks me forward, still pinioned against him, his teeth still worrying at my ear and my neck, and he puts me down over the table. One of his feet moves in between my legs and he kicks them apart. My hips are high, legs wide open, back arched. I hear the tell tale sound of his belt buckle and fly and I wriggle my bare ass side to side. His throaty chuckle is followed by a series of hard, resounding smacks on my ass, one right after the other, burning and spreading across my skin, hard and precise.

I slap my hands desperately against the table as he forces himself into my body. With every powerful thrust, our bodies rock against the table. I stand up on the very tips of my toes and wiggle beneath him. He grips my throat harder, for just a moment, completely cutting off my air. My nails scratch at the table, my mouth opens in a silent cry as I feel my head swim, and then he releases me, allowing me to gasp, to breathe deep. He moans loudly as he thrusts against me, one hand still beating at my ass and my hips, leaving large, red hand prints on my pale skin. My moans are little more than pants, I can barely catch my breath as his hips rut against mine.

I groan, and the sound is raspy and comes deep from my throat. I circle and grind my hips back against his and his free hand wraps into my hair and yanks me back. My body curves in a sharp bow and I grip the edges of the table and lose myself to the feel of him, so rough, so heated–his frustration pouring from him in waves. I can already feel the bruises starting on my skin, my muscles ache as he rips me apart beneath him. My orgasm mounts, tight and heavy, deep and intense and threatening to overwhelm me.

He leans down and presses his lips to the tattoo on my right shoulder gently, breathes against the ink. The interjection of intimacy in the ferocity of our fucking threatens to overwhelm me. I feel my heart attempt to burst through my chest, my pussy spasms uncontrollably with him deep inside of me. I can’t stop shivering. I can’t stop moaning. there are no words to convey what I’m feeling as my body tips the edge and I writhe beneath him desperately. He digs his teeth into my skin, just against my ink, to muffle his strangled cry. His whole body presses against mine; my squeezing, gripping cunt rips his orgasm from his body, milks him of his cum. He grinds against me slowly as I tremble beneath him, held up only by his arms, by the table pressed against my body.

He pulls out and I wiggle up onto the table and make grabby hands at him. He comes to me and I wrap my arms and legs around him, holding him to me. I nestle my face into the crook of his shoulder and kiss his neck gently.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

There are more words–of explanation and contrition and possession. Words that are honest and occasionally bittersweet. Words that I have whispered before and would whisper again, but not all things are meant for sharing.

This moment: “The interjection of intimacy in the ferocity of our fucking threatens to overwhelm me.” This is the moment I love. This is the moment my heart swells and my spirit breaks and it is nothing but him. xoxo